


To Catch A Fly With Vinegar

by ALC_Punk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Episode: The Abominable Bride, F/M, PWP, Rough Sex, Sherlolly - Freeform, Victorian Sherlolly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 14:01:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17427254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALC_Punk/pseuds/ALC_Punk
Summary: Hooper and Holmes are like oil and water. Discussions between them nearly always lead to an inevitable conclusion--as long as others are not around. Shameless smut.





	To Catch A Fly With Vinegar

**Author's Note:**

> There is literally nothing hotter than the "Hooper." "Holmes." exchange in the morgue in that episode. And then the derisive conversation between them is basically angry sex foreplay that he's too distracted to follow up on. In the case of this fic, there is no distraction, no redeeming features, but there is shameless smut.

It was far too late to have been at work still, but there had been a case which Scotland Yard had requested assistance on, and so Molly Hooper had stayed to keep their consultant from running about her morgue with no supervision. The last time he'd done so, she'd found far too many missing items. 

That Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, an excellent detective and useful in his consulting work with the police didn't go very far to pacify her as to his thefts. She had instituted quite a few policies after that, and held him to them rather strictly, no matter his protests. Frequently, John Watson had to intervene.

A quick consultation about the case had seen Lestrade and Watson leaving to follow-up on leads, and Holmes had stayed behind, ostensibly to assist in reviewing the autopsy for any further clues.

In practice, as the morgue was empty, it was for a far different reason. 

A double murder wasn't really the best excuse for this, she reflected. But Holmes had been himself as soon as he'd walked into her morgue: an insufferable, smug, supercilious arsehole that she'd managed to knock down a peg or two when he was _wrong_ about the cause of death. It was enough to get under his skin.

Enough that now the others were gone, she'd chased him out of her morgue, and into one of the dimly-lit side rooms where he let her corner him.

The hands on her hips, fingers digging in through layers of trouser and drawers made her breath hitch even as she grabbed at his collar, yanking his head down to hers. The kiss was frantic, angry, full of sharpness and the sort of double-edged passion that characterized their interactions.

Her blood _raced_ beneath her skin as he yanked her closer, turned them, pressed her into the wall.

If Anderson, if any of them were to catch them--but she wasn't thinking of that (the man occasionally cropped up when he was least expected, she suspected he was stalking Holmes and left him to it). She was thinking of the taste of Holmes, the coffee he'd had, the formaldehyde that always lingered on her own skin after a long day at the morgue, the heat of his body. It was the delicious hardness pressed between her legs that caused her nipples to harden, her belly to clench, her loins to tighten at what was to come of it. 

The rough wall at her back would leave marks, she knew. If her body were free of clothes, he would be leaving bruises. Perhaps he still was.

"Hooper," he hissed, dragging his mouth from hers, ducking to her neck where he nipped a quick line until he'd dug under her collar where no one would see. Her tie was already flung to the floor, no obstacle for Holmes.

The pull of teeth and lips made her clamp a hand over her own mouth so as not to keen too loudly.

He made a frustrated noise at that, as though he'd wanted to _hear_ that sound echo out into the hallways. Well, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Instead, she'd give as good as she got. She untied his cravat and worked as his buttons enough to get her hand in under the cloth. With precision, she dug her nails into his skin and dragged them, knowing she was leaving marks. 

The sound against her own shoulder was enough to make her smile fiercely. 

More fumbling of hands and fingers occurred. Trousers were opened, yanked down and away, Molly's got tangled at her boots until Holmes made an impatient sound and ripped one of them off. With a leg suddenly free, she found herself lifted up and pressed back into the wall as he drove his own hips in-between her legs. 

A laugh cracked out of her as his too-eager thrust missed entirely. He growled, hands tightening on her hips. She wriggled, getting her hand down to where it would be helpful, and grasping at his hardened cock, maneuvering it correctly. The next thrust stole every iota of air from her lungs. 

Full. She was so bloody full, the hardened heat of him stretching her to the breaking point. Always, always, it was like this, it was why she couldn't resist him when he snarled and argued and taunted until they reached this point. A sound, half-sob, half-moan, escaped her and she leant forward, burying her mouth in the side of his throat as he started to move. 

She was never as careful of the marks she left on him.

Jagged, quick thrusts that caught at her pubic bone as she ground against him sent sparks of pleasure flashing through her. He had set a harsh rhythm, and she knew he was closer than her. Knew he would take his pleasure before her, if he could.

He had done so, before. No soft, careful, lover who made sure she was pleased, was Sherlock Holmes. He was a selfish man seeking his own pleasure. Whether she climaxed or not, he never seemed to care--though she did always manage to do so. Had she taken stock and reviewed their encounters with more than brief thoughts, she might have come to a somewhat different conclusion, as after their second encounter, he had been far more studious in assuring her climax. However, such introspection was, at best, avoided.

Sexual attraction and release would not damn her as an unrequited love for a man who derided sentiment would. There was no room in their unspoken arrangement for emotions to cloud her judgment. Not that she could stop them from filling her dreams when she was too tired to keep them at bay. 

Reaching back to the wall, Molly braced herself, then twisted her hips, pushing down onto him at a different angle. The rhythm changed, and her hand had room to slide between them again, fingers stretching and reaching where they'd do the most good. He would not steal her completion from her, of that she was certain. 

Her finger stroked against the side of her clitoris, the slick from her own arousal making it almost too-slippery. She had little purchase, but enough friction to feel the sparks beginning to coalesce into something deeper. 

It was like this every time, with him. They had not started amicably, and she didn't know that they could have. Not and be who they were. Dr. Hooper and Mr. Holmes, not quite enemies, very much not friends. Briefly, she had considered acquiescing to him, allowing him to run roughshod over her. But she had an illusion to maintain, and she had fought too hard to get where she was to allow that. Once begun, there had been no turning back. 

Even as she had begun to recognize their mutual attraction, even as it had led to their first coupling, she could not relent. 

Indeed, their first encounter had been against this very wall, with him attempting to press her into it face-first. She'd snapped an elbow back, got her own way whilst bruising his ribs and leaving trails of scratches down his back under his shirt. 

She'd often wondered if John Watson ever saw the state of him after their encounters. 

The pleasure coiled further within her, and his hips snapped out of rhythm with hers just as she crested her peak. Biting down on his collar kept the shriek pouring out of her from escaping, and his own mouth was still worrying at her shoulder, muffling his own noise. She'd be tender there, for at least the next week. 

Experience had taught her that high collars were a must even aside from needing to disguise the shape of her shoulder-blades. 

At least he had never marked her in a place she could not easily conceal, even as a woman.

His hands left her hips, and she dropped her legs to the ground, the wall at her back leaving marks through the wool and linen of jacket and shirt as she slid down to land on her feet. It kept her from toppling, though, which she appreciated. 

In silence, they righted themselves, smoothing what they could, pulling up trousers and under-things, re-buttoning and tying. Molly inspected the teeth-marks in her shoulder before covering them and hap-haphazardly fastening her tie around her wrinkled collar. She then bent to pull her boot back on, scowling at the knotted laces he hadn't bothered to undo before shucking it off. 

When she straightened, he was regarding her silently, his face unreadable. Gone was the frustrated anger that had driven him to pin her to the wall. 

"Hooper."

"Holmes." She looked up at him, wondering if there was a flicker of something softer in his eyes. She discarded the very notion and nodded. "Do try to keep your brain from dwindling into a caricature of itself in the next few days. Perhaps sleep a little. I've heard it can help."

A sneer crossed his lips, but he didn't respond, merely turned and stalked from the room. 

Molly collected herself further, and wondered if she should have warned him he looked rather thoroughly kissed. Then again, he'd done so in the past with no repercussions. Reaching up, she pressed her own lips for a moment, then firmly turned them into a frown as she followed the detective. 

There would be few on the streets to encounter her prior to gaining her lodgings, and the darkening night would assist in further disguising any tells. 

And if she spent the night re-living the feel of him between her legs, and the strange softening in his eyes, she chalked it up to the needs of the body rather than the feelings welling deep within her soul. It was as it had to be, lest she lose all semblance of herself and chase a man who would never allow himself to be caught. 

-f-


End file.
